


I lived a lifetime in the space of a dream

by Porgsforbreakfast



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Force Visions (Star Wars), Kylo Ren Needs a Hug, Longing, breastfeeding mentioned in passing, emotionally atrophied monster craves mundane domesticity, this came to me the world's biggest dork in an actual dream, toddlers dgaf about your emotional crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28796076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Porgsforbreakfast/pseuds/Porgsforbreakfast
Summary: Have you ever woken up from a nap and everything was suddenly very wrong? Or maybe very right?One-shot, complete.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 10
Kudos: 71





	I lived a lifetime in the space of a dream

The first thing he sees when he wakes, blinking muzzily, are his own bare feet, stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. That’s unusual enough. He often sleeps in his clothing; summonses from his master can come at any hour, and his master is not a patient man. But the warm, golden light blanketing him is completely unexpected. Disorienting, even.

Stretching, he sits up straighter in what is a really rather comfortable chair. Shade from a leafy arbor dapples the smooth stones under his feet. Fragrant plants cluster along a low wall several meters away, beyond which he can see only sky. There’s a distant sound of moving water and calling birds. A modest stone building supports the arbor on his left. A house maybe? But whose house? He swallows, unsure of what to do next.

Gripped with anxiety, he surges to his feet and paces toward the wall, taking in the crashing waves far below. All this comfort is making him uneasy. Things in his life are not soft, not warm. He usually awakens to the cool, metallic, recycled air of the _Finalizer’s_ climate system, his head pillowed on his arm and his feet still in his boots, body cushioned only by a thin training mat. He does not _nap._ What is he even doing here, dozing in this garden, dressed in smooth, comfortable clothes? 

The memory hits him like a phantom blaster bolt, pain piercing his chest. Han Solo. The bridge. _His father._ He’d _killed_ his father. He grips the edge of the garden wall, knuckles white as he swallows a sob. Was it a dream? It had felt real. His father’s face, once full of cocky, mocking charm, gone old and grave. Those familiar hands, clenched not around the controls of the _Falcon,_ but struggling with his own for his saber. And then, his father’s face, transfixed in agony for just a moment before that last tender touch, and the long, slow fall into oblivion. No, that was real. He was sure of it.

But then, what was this place? Patricides didn’t get to doze lazily on warm afternoons, touched only by gentle breezes. He gulps the fresh, salt-scented air, catching the scent of the plants he’d crushed beneath his feet, the latest, smallest casualty of his rashness. Was this the dream? Nice dreams weren’t for him, either. No, he only got to dream of the worst things he’d done in the hopes of extinguishing that last glimmering mote of light with in him. What was he doing here? How? Why? Yes, before there was only agony, but at least he knew his place in it. He doesn’t know how long he stares out at the sea, uninterrupted to the horizon, but it is a long time. 

Distantly, he hears a door open, and domestic sounds of bags rustling and small feet running. A woman’s voice calls out, surely not to him. 

“Love?” She pauses, interrupted by the grousing cry of an infant, and of an older child whining. There’s a thump as some objects are unceremoniously dropped on the floor. She calls out again. “Love, are you home?” 

He does not respond. He is not anyone’s love. He’s a murdering stranger, lurking in a woman’s garden. He looks around wildly for some way to escape undetected, but the little house and its garden are cut into a terrace, with a sheer drop over the garden wall and an equally vertical cliff rising from the other side. He’s trapped. 

The voice is a little annoyed, now, and the children are not getting any calmer. “Could you get Hanna a snack, please? We stayed too long at Rose and Finn’s, and she’s starving, but I have to feed Hope.” Despite the chaos, the woman’s clipped Core accent sharpening further with frustration, the increasing volume of the children’s upset, he’s drawn to them. As if caught in a tractor beam, he moves toward the house, stepping into the cool, dim interior. 

Barreling toward him is a small girl, no more than three years old, her face bursting with a sunny smile, black curls bouncing. As he awkwardly crouches to try and keep the girl from bowling him over, he catches a glimpse of the woman. It’s _her,_ flustered, wisps of hair escaping from her buns and dark smudges beneath her eyes, but it’s the girl. Rey. She has a baby strapped to her chest, and he sees a dark cap of hair peeking out of the top of the sling. He hasn’t done more than gasp in shock before the child plows into him, little arms clutching his thighs, shrieking “Daddeeeeee!” His arms come around the child, who has begun to chatter at high speed about Maker knows what, but he catches the words “Auntie Rose,” and “Uncle Finn,” and “baby Paige” before gravity and utter shock and the force of the child’s onslaught knock him backward onto his ass. The girl, oblivious to the fact that anything is wrong with him, climbs into his lap, still talking despite him not having said a word. 

He turns his stunned gaze to Rey again, who is simultaneously huffing out a laugh and admonishing, “Hanna, go easy on your old father,” glancing at his prostrate form with half a smile. She starts to move toward him, jostling the now-desperately-crying infant with one hand as she rummages around the mysterious interior of the sling, pulling out one perfect breast and offering it to the baby. The child latches on, her cries abruptly ceasing as her desperate need is met. Rey collapses back into a soft chair with a sigh, letting her eyes slip shut and her head fall back. The only sounds are the continued babbling of the child -Hanna, she called her?- and the occasional gulp or smack from the baby. It goes on for what feels like a very long time, though maybe it’s only a few moments. His emotional state is not concerned with the passage of time. 

Eventually, Rey cracks an eye open and raises her head a bit, looking at him with some concern. 

“Love? Hanna’s snack?” She prompts. He is openly gaping at her, eyes wild and jaw slack. “Are you ok?” 

He cannot answer, breathlessly opening and closing his mouth. He has never felt so many things all at once: shock, grief, joy, lust, wonder, and love. Incredible love. 

Rey stands up from the chair and stands over him, face sharpening with concern. She shifts the baby in her arms. “Ben, are you ok?” 

He pulls in a gasping breath, thinking surely he can speak this time. Ask what has happened to him, where he is, when she calls to him again, with real worry in her voice, “Ben?” 

He blinks. Rey is standing over him, still, but he is not on the floor of some comfortable sitting room in a little house by the sea. He’s sprawled in the snow of a darkened forest, his face and shoulder and side all flayed open, his eyes locked on Rey’s furious, beautiful face. She’s younger, and angry, so angry, but also so incredibly dear. She is not at all concerned about whether he’s ok. He realizes with a spike of loss that neither one of them are holding those children - _their_ children- anymore, but that both of them are clutching lightsabers, the only source of light in this doomed landscape. 

The ground is shaking violently, and he watches helplessly as a chasm opens between them. He struggles up onto his elbows, trying to rise and follow her, beg her not to leave him, but he is utterly spent, body wracked with injuries and covered with sweat, heart cracked as wide open as this doomed planet. His last plaintive thought, wailed into the Force as the pain drags him under is “How? Tell me how to get back there. Please tell me how.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, yeah, I promised the epilogue to Aren't you a Little Tall for an Ewok but I'm not there yet. Please accept this drabble as my apology.


End file.
